


We Have but Two Lives

by eternalchange



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ('everyone' might have exceptions as the story evolves into something), (that the tag already exists makes me happy), Alternate Universe, Cute Kids, Desi Harry Potter, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Gen, Harry-centric, M/M, PoC Harry, counsellor!Sorting Hat, updates will be pretty irregular, warning from the get-go that I have no idea where this story is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4963342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalchange/pseuds/eternalchange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"… the second begins when we realise we only have one."  In his second year at Hogwarts, Fawkes' tears are not as effective as expected, and Harry dies in the Chamber of Secrets during his encounter with young Tom Riddle … Only to wake up in a parallel universe where James and Lily Potter are among the living, along with many other familiar faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Fortunately for us fans, Harry Potter and associates belong to JKR, or this universe may never have existed (what a horrible thought!).
> 
> Notes: The title is a translation of one of my favourite French quotes, which reads, “On a tous deux vies; le seconde commence quand on réalise qu’on en a seulement une.” It roughly translates to, “We have but two lives; the second begins when we realise that we have only one.”

Harry Potter had always been a precocious child.

At one, on the night before the infamous death of James and Lily Potter, he had bounced on his godfather’s back and childishly demanded that ‘Pa’foo ho’sie gogo!’—all four-legged creatures were apparently horses, thanks to the numerous repeated viewings of Sleeping Beauty. 

(That ‘dratted film’, as the Marauder in question had grumbled about incessantly, was also to be blamed for Harry’s first bout of accidental magic—turning his black fur alternately pink and blue, before fixing rather firmly to the baby’s favourite shade of bubblegum pink.)

At three, he had gravely inquired whether Aunt ‘Tunia’s parents were giraffes, because her neck was ‘reaaally long’.

At five, his kindergarten teacher had to hastily wipe her eyes when he had presented her with make a picture crafted from all of his preciously collected golden star stickers, because she was his most favouritest person in the whole world.

At seven, he had taken to surreptitiously rubbing every lamp in his vicinity, hoping that a genie would appear and whisk him away from the reluctantly shared roof of the Dursleys.  Surprisingly, he’d been able to watch most of Aladdin through the tiny sliver of space of his cupboard door he’d kept open without getting caught, listening to the disparaging and scornful comments Uncle Vernon had made about how magic was all hogwash.  Little Harry sympathised with the genie; locked away in his lamp for thousands of years like Harry himself had been banished into his cupboard—only for four days but it felt like _at least_ a hundred years, and surely that had to count. 

By the time he was eleven, he had learned that all hints of creativity and cheekiness were to be firmly tamped down on lest he wanted to go days without meals. So when Hagrid, his very own giant of a genie, had rescued him and opened his eyes to the world of _magic_ —a word that had been forbidden within the pristine walls of Number 4, Privet Drive—he’d been sent into transports of rapture and delight.

For two incredible, glorious years, he had the novel experience of being able to let himself be as mischievous, as curious, as _happy_ as his heart desired.

He should have known it was too good to last.

As the basilisk’s fang pierced his skin, Harry was struck by the unwavering certainty that things had irrevocably changed. 

He felt Fawkes’ tears drip over his wound and clutched the fang in his hand while listening to Tom— _Voldemort_ —gloat from above.  Surprisingly, the fuzzy edges of his vision were receding, and suddenly the diary was in his lap.  He was barely able to hold onto the frayed threads of consciousness enough to impale it with the venomous fang before the Chamber slowly grew darker, and his head felt heavier, until he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always wanted to write about a younger Harry, as well as explore the parallel-universe-with-alive-Potters cliché, so I’ve combined the two into one! It does have to be said that I have absolutely no idea where this story is headed, so don’t expect updates with any sort of regularity. With that said, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Reviews are loved! Interesting? Waste of time? Let me know! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Harry found himself lying face down on the floor, but when he tried to push himself up, his hands grasped only empty air.  That wasn’t right.  If he was lying down, there had to be something he was lying down _on_. 

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a smooth surface solidified under his fingers. Now able to sit up, Harry scanned his surroundings.  An endless expanse of misty white extended in all directions, glowing wisps that Harry likened to smoke, except … Except that the hazy strands were gradually forming into shapes around him, and … was that a train?

A high-pitched wail broke through the stillness, and Harry was on his feet in an instant.  Barely had he noticed his lack of clothes than a thin robe appeared on his shoulders. Harry looked around worriedly as the broken cry continued—it sounded like a baby in pain.  An area ahead cleared, and he flinched at the sight. A tiny, naked infant lay on the ground, red and scaly-looking, whimpering and squirming in distress.

Harry walked slowly forward, even as a feeling in his gut tugged at him in the opposite direction.

Pattering feet suddenly sounded behind him, and Harry whirled around.  A young child, no more than five years old, was running to him. His bewilderment was growing exponentially—was dying supposed to involve some kind of babysitting duty?

The child came to an abrupt stop in front of him, and smiled up at him.  On any other child, the smile would have seemed shy and endearing, but Harry was left with the discomfiting feeling that … it—he was still unable to tell whether it was a boy or girl—knew something that he didn’t, something important.

“Hi, Harry,” the child said.  Its voice was oddly deep and serene, and Harry resisted the urge to shudder.  No matter how wise and distinguished Dumbledore was, chaperoning creepy kids really was not his idea of a ‘great adventure’.

“Hi,” Harry replied uneasily.  “What’s your name?”

The child merely smiled wider.  “You can leave little Tom there,” it said, gesturing to the blubbering baby beside them.  “He’ll be well taken care of.”

“Er, right.”  Harry had the feeling that it would better not to know the answer to his disregarded question in any case.

The child continued to watch him quietly, expectantly, its black eyes unblinking.

“So … do you know what I’m supposed to do? Or where I’m supposed to go?”

“It depends,” the child replied, and stared at him coolly.

Harry was trying to figure out if its eyes were so dark that he couldn’t see the pupils, or if the whole thing _was_ the pupil.  “Er, on what?”

“On where you want to go, of course.”

He stared back at the child in disbelief. “Of course.”

Ignoring his skeptical tone, the child said, “You can go back if you want.  Ginny’s still there, and you can take her back to Ron.  Or you can go on”—it pointed to the gleaming train—“and see your parents.”

Harry frowned.  One part of him—the larger part, if he was being honest—was already imagining and relishing the thought of finally meeting the people who had given their lives for him, a fantasy that he had comforted him on his loneliest nights.  But Ginny and Ron, and Lockhart even, were still stuck in the Chamber, with Voldemort to overcome.  And even if they somehow managed to make it out—Fawkes could probably bring Dumbledore to help—could he truly leave his friends behind?  Ron and Hermione … Seamus, Dean and Neville … Fred and George … Mr. and Mrs. Weasley … people that genuinely liked him, for the first time that he could remember.

He glanced back at the child, who was regarding him impassively.  There would be no help from that quarter.  And the truth was … he didn’t actually need the help.  He already knew what he wanted, but could he be so selfish? 

 _You’re basically dead,_ a corner of his mind goaded him knowingly.  _After being bitten by the basilisk’s ‘deadly and venomous fangs’, you’d just be making it … final. Ron and Hermione and the rest will be fine—they’ll get over it soon enough.  Besides, do you really want to go back to the Dursleys? You can be with your parents instead, and never again have to see the inside of the cupboard, or the smallest bedroom, or the kitchen of Number 4 … The decision is quite easy in the end, isn’t it?_

Biting his lip, he turned back to the child. Who was now at the door to a carriage of the train, beckoning him forward.  With one last glance at the still tearful infant, he walked onward past the serenely smiling child and onto the train.

Abruptly, Harry felt his knees crumpling beneath him, and his last sight before his eyes closed was of the coach fading into milky vapor, a quiet chuckle echoing in his ears.

 

* * *

 

Harry burrowed deeper into the covers, trying to ward off the chill. His bed was ridiculously uncomfortable, however; a slab of rock would’ve been easier to sleep on. Giving it up as a bad job, he wrapped the cloth around him tighter and finally sat up. 

Opening his eyes, he nearly screamed in terror.

Staring down at him from its towering height stood the stone statue of Salazar Slytherin. Harry scrambled back instinctively and looked about wildly, nearly tripping over his own robes. He was back in the Chamber of Secrets! 

His mind was racing.  The child said … and he had chosen to … and … _Why had he returned?_

That child, with its eerie smiles and placid stares, had lied to him. There was no other explanation.

A part of his heart was breaking as he reached this conclusion.  His parents were still so far away, and they would continue to be for probably many years yet.

He didn’t know how long he stood there in mournful misery, but finally he shook himself out of his self-pity and took a steadying breath.  Moping around wasn’t going to help Ginny after all …

He looked around.

Where _was_ Ginny?  And Voldemort?  Had he just been left behind to rot down here?  He vaguely remembered stabbing the diary with the basilisk’s fang—neither of which was in his lap any longer—but had that had any effect on Voldemort?

By rights Harry should be dead himself, according to the page that had been pried from Hermione’s hand, but that obviously that hadn’t worked quite as intended.

Still, he had better get back to Ron.  Ron! He’d still be waiting for him, with only Lockhart for company.  Harry cast a last cursory look around him before heading forward, only to stop in his tracks.  Where was the basilisk?  Someone would surely have noticed the corpse of a great hulking snake being dragged off someplace.

Nothing fit.  He was in the Chamber, but there was no basilisk, no Voldemort, no diary, and no Ginny. Deciding that it was better to be cautious, Harry reached into his robes for his wand, but his questing fingers came back empty-handed. 

Bloody buggering hell.  Voldemort had taken his wand too!  Well, there was nothing for it; he still had to find Ron.  Maybe he’d find Ginny along the way, though that was a half-hearted hope at best. 

Sticking close to the wall and keeping to the shadows, he slowly edged his way back through the passageway, which was surprisingly devoid rat bones and the like.  Turning a corner, he found himself quite suddenly looking at the gaping end of the pipe that had been his dubious way in. 

Overwhelmed with confused thoughts and possibilities whirling through his mind, he abruptly sat down on the floor.  There had been no shed basilisk skin on the way.  No Ginny, though he hadn’t held out much hope for that. No cave in.  No Lockhart.  _No Ron._

His skin prickled uneasily.  For all intents and purposes, the Chamber hadn’t been even the slightest bit disturbed in years, if ever.  He was alone, stranded in this giant stone enclosure, with nothing and no-one for help—not even his wand.  How was he supposed to find a way out?  The pipe was out of the question—he could hardly climb his way out through there.

Well, Salazar Slytherin must’ve had the same problem, so there had to be some exit he hadn’t seen yet.  Although … maybe that explained the reason for the founder’s disappearance?  He couldn’t find a way out of his own Chambers and died in here …

Harry let his imagination run free and amused himself with such morbid possibilities a few moments longer before eventually rising to his feet.  Alright.  What sort of route would a wizard like Slytherin create for an exit? Something that required Parseltongue, no doubt.  He approached the nearest wall and ran his fingers  over it, searching for a hint of a snake anywhere and hissing ‘ _Open’_ at regular intervals.

After what felt like hours of careful examination of every nook and cranny he could find, he had to admit defeat.  He had long since decided to speak his thoughts out in Parseltongue, in hopes that some word or phrase would trigger an opening, with no luck.

“ _Stupid Slytherin_ ,” he hissed tiredly, “ _it would serve him right if he did die in here, without an exit out of this hellhole.  What I wouldn’t give for an elevator, or even some stairs …_ ”

A grinding noise had Harry jerking his head up, heart in his throat. Before his astonished eyes, his erstwhile entrance was transforming into a flight of stairs.

For a long moment, all he could do was stare.  _Stairs …_ Giving a loud whoop, he jumped to his feet and raced up the heaven-sent escape. 

His elation was dying a swift death, however.  The ascent seemed to go on forever, the murky grey light adding to the never ending effect.  His arm was throbbing sharply now, sending pangs of stinging pain with every step. And were the stairs supposed to look so blurry? 

His feet moved mechanically on, until his toes struck a wall.  Seeing the entwined snakes of the entrance, Harry hissed out a winded ‘ _Open_ ’ before tumbling through and onto the wet, tiled floor of the girls’ bathroom. The ache in his head, which had crept up without him noticing, seemed to pulse in larger bursts with every throb. Without warning, the bathroom stalls swayed wildly in every which way, until the floor came rushing up to meet his face with alarming speed.

 

* * *

 

Someone was shaking him, quite persistently to Harry’s disgruntlement. “I’m up, I’m up,” he grumbled, yawning through his words.

Or at least, that’s what he tried to say.  What came out was a tired mixture of a groan and a whimper, drawn out into one long sound.  The mattress he was lying on was disgustingly snug, and all he wanted to do was curl into it for the foreseeable future.  But the hand rattling him didn’t seem to agree, and he sighed mournfully, relinquishing his hold on the soft pillow.

“Hermione?” he yawned, slowly blinking his eyes open.

A pair of bright hazel eyes stared back at him, so close that Harry’s own eyes were beginning to cross. 

“Hi!” chirped an equally bright voice.  “Is ‘Mione your friend?  I have a friend called ‘Mione too!  _Her_ mione,” he corrected himself, scrunching his nose in concentration.  An excited grin crossed his face.  “Maybe they’re the same!  I’ll bring her!”  With that, the boy scampered off, legs pumping vigorously and an energetic shout of “’Mione!” trailing after him.

Harry rubbed his eyes, half-wondering if that had been an especially vivid whirlwind of a hallucination.  Looking around, he realised that he was in the hospital wing.  Again. Madam Pomfrey would soon be over to cluck her tongue reprovingly and reprimand him for his far too frequent visits here, and he could only agree.  It was a bit embarrassing, to be perfectly honest; he hadn’t needed a doctor since he was four, and now he was in the nurse’s care more than a few times a year, whether from a Quidditch tumble or an exploded potion (thanks to Hermione’s insistence), not to mention his harrowing encounter with Quirrellmort. 

His brain suddenly caught onto the words the boy had spoken earlier and he sat up in shock. Hermione!  She must’ve been given the Mandrake Restorative Draught already then, if she was up and about.  And … the basilisk!  And Voldemort!  Ginny! How in Merlin’s name had he forgotten? And what had happened to Ron and Lockhart?

“Drink this, young man.”

A vial filled with a sludgy red potion was waved in front of his face.

“Huh?” Harry asked dumbly.

Madam Pomfrey narrowed her eyes.  “You have lost too much blood to be up without some Blood-Replenishing Potion. Drink,” she added sternly as he continued to stare.

Harry gulped at her faintly menacing mien and drank.  The matron’s expression cleared and she straightened his covers perfunctorily. “Now, you will explain to me how it is that I found traces of basilisk venom and phoenix tears in your blood.”

His earlier train of thought came crashing back.  “Madam Pomfrey!  I need to see Dumbledore!  Voldemort’s escaped the Chamber of Secrets!  And he’s got Ginny and Ron …”

Madam Pompfrey’s eyes widened further with every word.

“Good evening, Poppy.”

The matron gave a jolt of surprise before turning around.  “Headmaster!  I’m afraid this young man is suffering some sort of delusionary spell. He has been claiming the most disturbing and absurd things.  Voldemort, back!  The Chamber of Secrets, open!  Why, I’ve never heard of such utter nonsense.”  Harry had never seen Madam Pomfrey look so flustered.

Dumbledore’s eyebrows quirked strangely before settling again.  “If I may have a moment of your young patient’s time, Poppy?” he inquired courteously.

“Of course, Headmaster. He has lost quite a sizeable amount of blood, but it is nothing that cannot be put right with a few more vials of Blood-Replenishing Potion.”  Addressing Harry, she said, “I’ll be back with the next one in an hour,” before bustling out and pulling the curtain closed behind her.

Harry immediately launched into his explanation.  “Professor Dumbledore! Voldemort’s back—it was the diary! And Ginny—I tried, but the basilisk bit me, and then I wasn’t sure what happened, and—”

Dumbledore held up a hand, halting Harry’s jumble of words.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, young man, for while I am indeed Albus Dumbledore, I fear I have no recollection of making your acquaintance.  Might I request your name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry—how many times must he fall unconscious and wake up somewhere different? And everything’s just so confusing! 
> 
> Obviously I lied—the update's here in 2 days rather than 2 months, which was what I was expecting, to be honest. Next one's not going to be nearly so quick though. Still not sure where this story is going, but I’ve got a few bits and pieces forming here and there. I can already tell I’m really going to enjoy writing this, however :p
> 
> Please review! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stared at Dumbledore, gaping.  The headmaster’s expression was quite serious, and Fred and George didn’t jump out yelling ‘Got you!’ in triumph … Harry was getting the sinking feeling that something was very, very wrong.

“Professor, it’s me!  Harry! Harry Potter!” No recognition seemed to light up Dumbledore’s eyes.  “You know, the second year Gryffindor?  You caught me in front of the Mirror of Erised last year and told me not to look for it again?  And you found me after Professor Quirrell—who had Voldemort in the back of his head—tried to take the Philosopher’s Stone?  And Ron and I flew Mr. Weasley’s car into the Whomping Willow?  And a few months ago you said you believed me when I said that I didn’t Petrify anyone?”

After reeling off every encounter with the headmaster that he could think off, there was nothing left to do but stare beseechingly up at him.  Dumbledore would fix this—what ‘this’ was, he had no idea, but he _had_ to. 

Dumbledore was staring back at him pensively, and Harry couldn’t help but squirm uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze.  “Er … Professor?”

Shaking out of his thoughts, Dumbledore smiled down at him, twinkle firmly in place. “Well, Harry, you certainly seem to have had quite an adventurous two years at Hogwarts.  However, it is quite clear to me that I have never had the pleasure of meeting you before.”

“But—”

“Despite this, it is also evident that you have met me, far more times than most students, at that.  Which puts us in a predicament, though perhaps not a truly unique one.” He stood up, patting down his starry robes.  “Be assured that I will look into this most thoroughly, Harry, and I am confident that between us, we can arrive upon a likely explanation for this intriguing phenomenon. Until next time,” he concluded with a smile, lifting his hat briefly and exiting through the parted curtains.

Harry lay back in the bed, staring at the high ceiling.  Nothing made any _sense._ The Chamber was all different, there was no Ron or Ginny or Voldemort or Lockhart, Dumbledore didn’t know who he was … And that strange kid with the eerie eyes at King’s Cross with the crying baby, well, he had no idea what to make of that …

And yet it was still Hogwarts; the Chamber of Secrets clearly still existed, as did the hospital wing, not to mention Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore themselves.

Had he—and he couldn’t believe he was thinking this, but—had he gone back in time? After all, just the fact that magic existed had seemed outlandish less than two years ago. And he still had no idea what the limits were to magic—if there _were_ any, that is.  With Tom Riddle’s diary, he’d been able to go back in time into Riddle’s memory of fifty years ago—surely, time travel wasn’t such a stretch? 

As much as he wracked his brain, he wasn’t able to come with any better solution to the mess he was currently in.  Before he could entertain even more improbable theories, the curtains opened once more, and a messy head of dark hair poked in. The energetic child was back, tugging the sleeve of a dark-haired girl a few years older. 

“ ‘Mione’s busy,” the boy announced—and he really needed the kid’s name before ‘boy’ became all he could call him, and he really disliked that word anyway. “But this is my sissy, Cissy,” he giggled, pleased as punch at his clever wording, not noticing the long-suffering eye-roll of his ‘sissy’.

“Hullo, er, Cissy.” 

With another roll of her eyes—a gesture Harry suspected she used very often—she said, “It’s Francis.  Though I’m not sure Darian knows that …”  She paused deliberately, smirking at her brother.

And Darian rose to the bait beautifully, the same way Ron would have when Fred and George needled him.  “I _know_ that!  I’m not _stupid_!”

Francis laughed quietly, warm brown eyes dancing as she ruffled her brother’s hair. “Alright, alright,” she appeased him, “obviously you’re very smart.  Super smart, even.”

Peering suspiciously up at his sister, Darian huffed and proclaimed, “I’m super smart!  And you’re _mean_.” 

Watching their comfortable squabbling, Harry’s stomach did a funny twist. It was moments like this, like nothing the other said or did could truly drive a wedge between them, that made him yearn for a family even more.  The time he had spent at the Burrow the previous summer had been filled with such moments: Percy lecturing the twins pompously as the twins pulled ridiculous faces and gave no pretence of listening, Ginny insisting that it was her turn to use the bathroom first (even though it was not) until Ron gave in with a scowl, the family crowding around Errol to read Bill’s or Charlie’s latest owl … He had envied Ron something fierce during those weeks, even as Mrs. Weasley hugged and plied him with pancakes indiscriminately, and Mr. Weasley called him ‘son’ like it didn’t knock the breath out of him every time.  Because he now _knew_ what he was missing when he lived with the Dursleys, where they doted on their precious could-do-no-wrong son (which he had worked hard to convince himself he didn’t want anyway) and ignored their hooligan of a nephew.  He knew _exactly_ what it was that he would never be able to experience for himself, and it had taken the better part of the first week at Hogwarts to reconcile himself with that knowledge.

“What’s _your_ name?” Darian’s inquisitive voice broke through his thoughts.

“Oh, it’s, er, Harry,” he said.

“Harry? But that’s— _ow_!”  Darian rubbed his shin, glaring at his sister.  “You’re _mean_!” he repeated.

“Well, you should shut up,” Francis hissed back pointedly, clearly trying to send some sort of message to Darian with her eyes.

“But why does it—okay, okay!  _Jeez_!”  He turned back to Harry, sullen mood evaporating instantly.  “So, Harry, how come you’re here?  Do you go to Hogwarts?  It says Gryffindor on your robes but I’ve never seen you here before.  Are you new?”

“Er …” The onslaught of questions had him overwhelmed for a second.  “I do—did—go to Hogwarts, but something’s gone wrong, I think,” he replied, trying to put his muddled thoughts into simpler words.  “No one recognises me, so I think some complex—er, confusing,” he corrected himself at Darian’s quizzical expression, “magic has sent me here.  Dumbledore said he’s going to try to figure it out.”

“That’s good.  Uncle Albus”— _Uncle Albus??_ —“can fix anything! But does that mean you won’t be staying?” Darian asked.  He actually sound sad, for some unfathomable reason.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he mulled over the question.  In truth, he hadn’t even thought about that.  “I … don’t know.  I guess I’ll be staying for a while, at least until Dumbledore finds a way to return me to my Hogwarts.”

Darian perked up at the prospect.  “Then we can be friends!”  He ignored his sister’s mutters of “Who’d want to be friends with an annoying little twerp like you?” and bounced on his heels in excitement.  “Right, Harry?”

“Er, sure.  Friends,” Harry grinned back, positively charmed.  He glanced at Francis, who was once again—predictably—rolling her eyes. “So, Francis, do you go to Hogwarts too?”

She brightened visibly at the change in topic.  “Not yet, but I will in September!  I hope mum and dad aren’t still teaching here, though; that would be embarrassing.”

“Oh.” Harry couldn’t think of any married teachers at Hogwarts.  “What do they teach?”

“Defense, of course!  They’re Aurors, and Uncle Albus asked it of them as a favour,” she explained.

Hmm, so another difference.  Well, at least there was no Lockhart to smile the students into submission. Remembering his first meeting with Draco Malfoy and feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, he asked, “Do you know what House you want to be in?”

“Slytherin, of course,” she replied primly.  “Though Ravenclaw wouldn’t be bad, I suppose.  Mum says I’m a dead ringer for it, and Uncle Sev—he’s the head of Slytherin—says I ‘would not be an inadequate addition to the House’, which from him is practically a guarantee that I’ll be Sorted there. Dad and Uncle Siri grumble about it a bit—they were Gryffindors, you see—but mum twisted their ears and said they’d be happy no matter where I go.”

Harry had lost the plot at ‘Uncle Sev’.  Because there was only one person it could conceivably be, especially since he was head of Slytherin.  Snape.  Who Francis was calling _Uncle_. There was no one in the entire world he could imagine would be a less likely uncle than sneering and hateful Severus Snape, and that was including the caretaker Filch.  And Francis apparently looked up to the man, and _wanted to be in Slytherin herself_.

“But—but—Slytherin!” he sputtered, thinking of the haughty Malfoy and his goons Crabbe and Goyle, the heavyset Bulstrode, Parkinson with her permanently upturned nose, and the whole cheating Slytherin Quidditch team to boot.  And then there was Voldemort, of course. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin,” he said, remembering Hagrid’s words.  “The whole lot of them are slimy gits and …”  He petered off at Francis’ flinty glare.  Even Darian had lost his buoyant smile.

“Well, I guess I’m a slimy git, then,” she spat furiously.  “Come on, Darian, we don’t need to listen to such rubbish.”  And with a last resentful look she stormed off, her brother in tow.

Harry sank back into the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted.  He _knew_ he was right—Ron had said so, even Hagrid had warned him against the snakes … and Voldemort, the Dark Lord who murdered his parents, was a Slytherin himself!  

But why was it, he wondered, a seed of doubt blooming in his stomach, that the wet sheen in Francis’ gaze made him feel so ashamed?

 

* * *

 

Walking next to Dumbledore through the halls of the castle was a peculiar experience. Everything looked exactly the same, and yet nothing felt familiar.  The suits of armour squeaked and groaned as they moved, but none winked as Harry passed.  Nearly Headless Nick floated by in deep conversation with the Fat Friar, but he didn’t give his customary cheery greeting. 

What gave him the greatest start, however, was seeing Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley chattering to their housemates as they walked past, without so much as a flinch at his presence.  If the second year Hufflepuffs were here, it couldn’t be time travel! Actually, it should have occurred to him earlier, since according to Darian, Hermione was here too. Unless _all_ the students had time travelled?  But that didn’t fit either; no one else seemed stumped about their presence in this Hogwarts.

Suddenly, they came to a stop in front of a familiar-looking gargoyle.  It sprang aside at the headmaster’s “Cockroach Clusters”, and Harry followed him up the spiralling staircase. 

“Have a seat, Harry,” he said, waving a hand to the plush chair.

The headmaster’s office, like the rest of the castle, looked exactly as it had been when he had previously seen it.  There were the spindly silver instruments and odd whirring objects puffing out colourful wisps of smoke. An empty golden perch sat in the corner, fire-coloured feathers littering the floor beneath. Covering the walls were portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, and behind the desk sat a tattered, faded old hat.

“Ah, yes, the Sorting Hat,” said Dumbledore.  “That is one of the main reasons I requested your company, Harry.  Since, as you have no doubt deduced, you will be our guest for a time, arrangements are being made to ensure you will be comfortable with us.  Given that you are a second year student, the first step is your Sorting.”

“But, Professor, I already _have_ been Sorted! I’m in Gryffindor!” The uneasy feeling was back, coupled with the memory of his preceding visit to the same office—when the Sorting Hat had reiterated its conviction that Harry would have done well in Slytherin.

Dumbledore chuckled lightly. “For all intents and purposes, you are a new student here, Harry.  An age-old tradition such as the Sorting cannot simply be bypassed in lieu of the undoubtedly fascinating magic that has brought you here.”

He reached for the Hat and placed it on Harry’s head.

“Hmm … yes … ah … you are an interesting one, aren’t you, Mr. Potter?  Albus,” the Hat spoke aloud, “you had best get started on that paperwork of yours that’s been piling up lately; this one is going to take a while.”

“And you won’t reveal any more to a curious old man, will you?” Dumbledore sighed.  “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t put it off any longer,” he said, eyeing his cluttered desk mournfully. 

“Can’t you just put me in Gryffindor?” Harry asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not, young man.” Harry’s stomach sank like a stone. “There’s no denying that Gryffindor will grant you a home unlike any other, no question about that. However, before I pronounce a House for you, there are some prejudices I believe we need to confront. Namely, your aversion to anything Slytherin.”

“It’s Slytherin!” Harry exclaimed indignantly.  “They’re never fair, Snape was especially nasty to the Gryffindors, and Voldemort was a Slytherin too!”  _So there_ , Harry added childishly.

“Well, first of all, let me rectify the notion that Hagrid has put into your head—not all evil witches and wizards are Slytherin.  I’ve Sorted many a child, Harry Potter, and while the ‘bad’ ones may have been disproportionately represented by the House of snakes, it is not necessarily their fault. Quite often, they are a product of how they have been raised; and if their parents were a contributor in the war, like Mr. Malfoy’s father, they would have been brought up with a certain set of beliefs with no one to tell them otherwise.  How would it feel if _you_ were shunned for something not in your control, Mr. Potter? If three quarters of the school thought you were the lowest of low?”  Harry fidgeted guiltily.  “Considering your experience living with your lamentable relatives as well as these past few months as a Parseltongue, not very much, I assume.

“In addition, there seems to be a misconception about the Sorting process itself.  I Sort based on the student’s traits that are most potent and prevalent within the person.  That does not mean that they lack the qualities prized by other Houses—no, in fact, quite often they are a mix of characteristics of _all_ the Houses.  Just because you were once Sorted into Gryffindor does not mean that you are _not_ cunning and ambitious, or loyal and hardworking, or intelligent and studious.  I imagine you wondered many a time why Ms. Granger was not Sorted into Ravenclaw when she possesses such a thirst for knowledge—it is simply because her bravery and sense of righteousness outweigh her studious nature. In the same way, the Slytherins too are equipped with other attributes.  For instance, have you ever witnessed a dispute between any Slytherin students?  It is quite unlikely, as they tend to have a healthy dose of loyalty to their own.”

By this point, Harry was feeling so small that he was ready to be swallowed up by the floor under his feet.

The Sorting Hat sighed. “It was not my intention to make you feel upset or even ashamed; I merely wished to prompt you to ponder your very strong convictions and decide whether it is indeed what you truly believe, or something you simply accepted as true.

“Now,” the Hat said, sounding far less solemn, “shall we complete your Sorting?  As I see it, Gryffindor and Slytherin suit you the most.  That is not to say that you are not loyal and hardworking, or intelligent and studious—you definitely are, but these qualities seem to appear at certain select instances, such as your loyalty to your best friends, and the diligence and mental prowess you apply when you have a worthy goal.  Do you still have a preference for Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?”

“No,” Harry said quietly, “I think anywhere would be fine.  Only …” Harry bit his lip worriedly.  “Do you think I’ll still have friends if I go to Slytherin?” he whispered.

“Of that I have no doubt,” the Hat replied warmly.  “Now, where to put you …  Were Salazar and Godric here, we would have a pretty fight on our hands.  Hmm …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exams are overrrr!! Which means … wait for it … I can write again!! You guys have no idea how hard it was not to just skip a day of studying and write fic instead (but I did end up writing a Sirius/Remus drabble anyway, ahem). It took me a while to decide which one of my ongoing fics to start working on, but as I already had a rough idea of how I wanted this chapter to go, I figured I’d begin with this. The more I spend time thinking about this universe, the more I like it! Plus, Darian is just too adorable :3
> 
> Is it very obvious what the significance of the OCs is? I’m the worst judge, since I’m the one writing this story …
> 
> Please leave your thoughts below!! :)


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, as he traced the same path from the hospital wing to Professor Dumbledore’s office – without the headmaster this time – Harry was still in a pensive mood.

When the Sorting Hat had shouted “GRYFFINDOR!”, causing Dumbledore to startle and knock over a few rolls of parchment to the ground (not that he had particularly minded, by the looks of things), Harry had had a strange mixture of feelings.Relief, primarily, as he  _was_  in fact going to be returning to his old House, with its warm and welcoming red and gold (and did not have to wake up to Malfoy’s pointy face every morning).But there had also been a slight … not disappointment, per se, but an odd, bittersweet regret nonetheless.Because after his long talk with the Hat, he had braced himself for a pronouncement of “SLYTHERIN!”, and had come to terms with it – maybe even looked forward to it, just a bit.

After being reassured by Dumbledore that he would have the necessary supplies and such prepared and delivered to his new four-poster bed in the second year dorms (not that there was very much left of the year to complete), he had been free to go.Well, free being a relative word, as Madam Pomfrey had been expecting him back for at least another couple of days of observation, and he knew better than to challenge her iron-fisted reign of her domain.

He had spent long moments, through dinner and right up until he was asleep in his white bed, mulling over the wise words of the Sorting Hat. 

As the gargoyle moved aside at his “Cockroach Clusters”, he was still thinking about how to apologise to Francis.He knew now that he had been in the wrong with his hasty judgements, and if she was anything like Ginny – who was terrifying when her wrath was sufficiently incurred – he might have a hard time earning her forgiveness.And, he shuddered as he considered another possibility, hopefully Francis didn’t have a legion of protective older brothers he had to prove himself to either.

He stepped off the last stair and froze in the open doorway as all eyes turned to him.It was a strange sight – what looked like every professor of Hogwarts was crowded into the circular office, sitting on their varied choice of seats.Professor McGonagall looked as stern as ever, with her tightly wound bun and tartan robes.Professor Flitwick seemed to be bouncing with enthusiasm, and Professor Sprout’s smile was as warm as he remembered.Even Hagrid was present, looking almost too big to be allowed, as he always did when not outdoors.What was different was that he only merited a curious glance from Professor Snape, rather than the nasty sneer he was accustomed to.

The greatest shock, however, was when he caught sight of two people speaking quietly between themselves, two faces he had only seen in the photo album given to him by Hagrid.The flaming hair and kind green eyes, the messy mop of dark hair and laugh lines around hazel eyes …

_ It couldn’t be _  …

It was as though he had taken a Bludger to the stomach; all air whooshed out of him and his legs trembled under him.Unable to look at them any longer – tears were rapidly filling his eyes and blurring his vision – he turned to Dumbledore, opening and closing his mouth as he tried in vain to put the overwhelming tidal deluge of emotion and confusion he was feeling into intelligible words.

At any other time, the look of alarm on Dumbledore’s face would have been almost comical – so rarely did he seem ruffled or unprepared – but he had to focus on his shaky breathing.Thankfully, the headmaster had sensed something of his inner turmoil, for Harry found himself gently guided into a cushy chair that seemed to be making a valiant attempt at swallowing him into its generous folds.He took a few seconds to catch his breath and compose himself.When he looked up again, all eyes were still on him, but he couldn’t muster the energy to feel embarrassed.

Once the swell of emotion had subsided slightly, his thoughts turned to the utter absurdity and impossibility of his parents being alive, and actually  _sitting in the same room as him_.It had to be some kind of horrible trick.But if that was the case, no one was laughing.Indeed, Dumbledore’s reaction meant that he had not anticipated such an effect.

What was going on?

Dumbledore broke the speculative silence first.“Is everything alright, Harry?Something of great import seems to have taken place, and yet I am at a loss regarding the matter.”

At the headmaster’s truly concerned expression, Harry bit back the sarcastic retort at the tip of his tongue.“Professor, is that Lily and J-James Potter?” he asked, pointing at the two in question ( _not his parents, never his parents)._

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied cautiously, “and given who you have identified yourself to be, I did foresee a response to their presence, but one much more favourable …”

Harry’s face twisted in shock.“You don’t  _know_?”He shook his head, remembering his recent – first? – conversation with the headmaster –  _this_  headmaster, who, despite all evidence to the contrary, was  _not_  the wizard he had known for the past two years.If he didn’t know of Harry Potter, of course he didn’t know about the story of the Boy Who Lived.

_ Merlin _ , his head hurt.

“Albus,” a firm voice interrupted his thoughts.Harry saw his da— _James_  frown as he continued, “What have you called us here for?”

He quickly averted his eyes when James pinned him with an intent and thoughtful gaze.

Dumbledore weighed his words carefully, still keeping a worried eye on Harry.“My intention was to introduce you to this young man, who came to me with a truly remarkable story – one that also presented a puzzle the likes of which I have not encountered in all my admittedly eventful years. I believed this predicament would benefit from the observations and unique perspectives of some of the brightest minds I know. I myself am not aware of more than a few bits and bobs, and was hoping our visitor would elucidate further.”

All eyes swivelled toward him again, an expectant air about them.Harry squirmed uncomfortably under the attention of so many professors – it had never boded well for him before.

“Er,” he said, “I don’t really know what happened either.One minute Fawkes was crying on my arm, and the next moment I woke up here.”

“I believe, Harry,” Dumbledore said, smiling kindly, “that we would all profit from an explanation of the many adventures that you hinted at that led up to your appearance here.”

Harry’s confusion did not abate.“From when I was accepted to Hogwarts?”Really, if he began there, they’d be sitting here all day.

“The beginning, I find, is an exceptional place to start at.And I suspect that your particular tale embarks at a far earlier point.”

Even  _earlier_?But what—Oh.He rubbed his lightning-shaped scar unconsciously.From  _there_.“Aren’t there classes?” he asked desperately.“It’s Monday, right?”

“Classes have been cancelled,” Dumbledore dismissed.Perhaps perceiving his trepidation, he added, “We will listen to all you have to share, Harry.Nothing more, nothing less.But please be mindful that the more information that is shared, the better equipped we will be to help.”

Harry resisted a rare urge to pout.Instead, after another tentative glance at Dumbledore, to which he received an encouraging nod, he took a deep breath and began.

* * *

 

Hours later, the headmaster’s office had undergone some changes.The neat rows of the professors’ chairs were no more; instead, a disorganised huddle had formed around Harry.At the helm of this mass were James and Lily Potter, both of whom had progressively lost so much colour that they appeared to be carved out of marble.The other professors were not much better, hands wringing helplessly, lips pressed thinly.Astonishingly, Snape appeared to be one of the most affected; his expression was one of aghast disbelief (Harry hadn’t realised his Potions professor  _could_  look at him with something other than a sneer), and his knuckles shone white against his skin as he clutched stiffly at his armrests.

Fawkes had materialised in a flash of flames not long back, and he sat perched on Harry’s knee, occasionally nudging his hand with a melodious trill.

Harry had poured out the whole story, covering everything he thought would be useful.How he survived Voldemort’s green curse, and then grew up with the Dursleys (Lily and James ad exchanged confused glances, once they got over the revelation that this was  _their son_ ).The troll garnered the first of many rounds of horrified gasps.Their suspicions about Snape drew bewildered looks and angry scowls alike, especially at his portrayal of his first Quidditch match (which went from cheers to fearful moans), but only received a ponderous stare in return from the man in question.When he described the slew of obstacles they overcame before he finally faced Voldemort, Dumbledore had looked troubled, and the twinkle in his eye was markedly absent. 

His account of his second year was even less well borne, fraught as it was with bursts of exclamations and incredulous cries.He had a moment of concern when James – who must have choked on something – had exploded into a hacking cough in the middle of his retelling of their crash with the Whomping Willow.Sympathetic groans were prominent throughout the rest of the story: Gilderoy Lockhart, Malfoy buying his way into the Quidditch team, the bloodthirsty voices only he could hear, the writings on the wall, the string of petrifications, the fiasco of the Duelling Club … Well, the less said about any of that the better, he thought as he skimmed over the details.

By the time he had arrived at his and Ron’s run-in with Aragog and his family in the Forbidden Forest, he was sure he heard a voice muttering a low, fervent prayer under their breath.His own trip down into the Chamber of Secrets proved to be the breaking point for Lily – she had grasped his hand and berated him furiously (and all the while Harry held back a silly grin as a warm feeling suffused his body).His encounter with the basilisk and then Voldemort  _again_ , however, had the entire room in an uproar.Wild theories were thrown about regarding Voldemort’s appearance, why Ginny’s life was being sucked away, how the basilisk’s bite should have killed him …

And all through the collective outburst, Dumbledore’s gentle but piercing gaze stayed on him, as though he knew Harry had left something out.But, once again, despite  _knowing_  that it would help, Harry found that he did not want to open up to the headmaster.He did not want to share the very last portion of the story, did not desire to be laughed at for his strange hallucination – for what else could it have been? – with the creepy child and the train station.Most of all, he did not want Dumbledore – or anyone else, for that matter – to look deeper into why he, when given the option, had ultimately chosen to die.

Finally, the voices quietened down to a hush.

“You have remained rather silent, Albus – what is your opinion on the matter?” a silver-haired, sharp-eyed witch asked.

“I have but a few educated guesses, Septima,” Dumbledore said, fingers steepled together in thought.“Such instances are few and far between, and the explanations may be many – why, Undell the Unctuous had theorised that one could splinch oneself to the moon, under the correct circumstances … but perhaps that is a tale for another time,” he added at pointed ‘ahem’s from several professors.“From what I have gleaned of Harry’s narration, there is only one conclusion I have any measure of faith in.Our young guest appears to have arrived from a parallel universe.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded.Parallel universes?The Dursleys had disapproved of such notions, so he wasn’t certain but … wasn’t that a science fiction thing that people made up for movies?

Dumbledore continued, undeterred by the shocked silence.“It is a theory supported by similar occurrences that have transpired over the centuries. Unsurprisingly, it is an extraordinarily uncommon phenomenon, only made possible by an innumerable array of factors all falling into place in a specific manner.There is one common thread to all these incidents, however: a meeting of opposites.In the case of Drucilla Dearheart, for example, it is said that she was caught in the crossfire of a fierce duel and was simultaneously hit by Fiendfyre and Terrorice.Unfortunately, within moments of her appearance in a Mongolian desert, she died as a result of the fourth degree frostbite and burns she endured.Harry’s situation is far more propitious, as the phoenix tears were able to counter the basilisk venom in his blood before he succumbed to its deadly effects.These substances, being opposing in nature, are likely what facilitated Harry’s transport into our universe.”

As everyone digested Dumbledore’s explanation, a sudden thought occurred to Harry.“Will I be able to go back?”

Dumbledore watched him solemnly over the rim of his spectacles.“I’m afraid, Harry, that even if we were to recreate the exact events leading up to your accidental foray into this world – which I am certain we would all find distasteful regardless – it is doubtful that the venture would succeed.Indeed, it is far more likely that you will turn up in an altogether new universe, instead of the one you departed from.”

As the words sunk in, Harry was filled with conflicting emotions.It was a strange relief to know with finality that his previous life was over.The Boy Who Lived was no more, and with that knowledge came a wonderful sense of freedom.But here he was, in a bizarre and unfamiliar world where he knew no one, and yet everyone – a world that was so similar to his own, and yet so foreign. Now that he had come to terms with his living and breathing state, he would almost prefer to be back in his old world; at least there he knew where he stood with the people in his life.

At length, Professor McGonagall asked, “What is to be done, Albus?”

The sparkle was back in Dumbledore’s eyes. “Well, to begin with, Harry here will be finishing his second year at Hogwarts.He has already been Sorted into Gryffindor, and I have arranged with the house-elves for the necessities to be prepared.”

“And after that?”

Harry’s eyes widened.What  _would_  he be doing after that?Surely he wouldn’t be sent to the Dursleys for the summer?Did the Dursleys even exist in this universe?

“No doubt Albus has predicted James and Lily’s response,” Snape said shrewdly, an eyebrow raised.Lily nodded firmly beside him.

“He will be welcome to stay with us, of course,” James confirmed, his tone brooking no argument.“Severus, do you mind finding Francis and Darian and bringing them up?They should be informed as well.”

“Francis and Darian?” Harry blurted.“What do they need to be here for?”

“They are our children,” Lily answered as Snape swept out of the room.“I don’t believe they would have— you wouldn’t have met them in your world?Under the circumstances …” she added unevenly.

“No, not in my world.But Darian introduced himself yesterday when I was in the hospital wing.And I met Francis soon after …”He groaned suddenly, remembering their disastrous conversation.“I said some … not very nice things to her that I need to apologise for,” he said quietly.

It was ironic, he thought as Lily patted his arm, that the elder brother he needed to prove himself to … was himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Harry’s in Gryffindor and had to narrate his rather adventurous life to the Hogwarts staff (two of which are his dead parents ...). Poor kid, he just can’t seem to get a break.
> 
> I had a great discussion (probably long enough to fill a chapter all on its own) about the intricacies of Harry’s personality with one of the commenters who so kindly indulged my inner nerd, which helped me greatly in ultimately deciding Harry’s house. If anyone else ever feels so generously inclined, you know where to find me! (hint hint …)
> 
> So, what do you think?


	5. Chapter 5

Once Dumbledore had dismissed everyone, a mass exodus of chattering professors had occurred, often with glances at a weary-looking Harry on the way out. With a few solemn words to Lily and James and a pat to the shoulder of their universe hopper, Dumbledore also exited his office. Fawkes had disappeared in a burst of flames not long ago, leaving the circular room empty but for the softly conversing Potter couple a few feet away from Harry, hands held together.

While at any other time Harry would have been burning with curiosity to know what they were talking about, his thoughts were doing their best to catch up with the rollercoaster ride of everything that had happened since he had been bitten by the basilisk. Which now led to apologising to Francis. Who was apparently his … well, not sister, but his not-parents' daughter. His sister from another universe. Which for all intents and purposes was now also his universe.

_How was this his life?_

Far too soon, the door opened once again. Snape walked through first, followed by a inquisitive-looking Darian and Francis. A scowl formed on Francis' face as soon as she caught sight of Harry, and she promptly made a beeline for the farthest chair from him.

"What's _he_ doing here?" she asked disdainfully.

Lily frowned at her. "You will mind your manners, young lady."

"Only if they were polite to me, Mum! You said! And _he_ certainly wasn't," she said scathingly, nose in the air.

James appeared to be stifling a grin. "You did say so, Lils. I believe the exact words were, 'Don't be afraid to demand the respect you deserve, and you shouldn't settle for anything less.' Fran seems to have taken the lesson to heart."

Not the best beginning, Harry felt, a feeling further affirmed by the smirk that appeared on Snape's face. Lily looked like she didn't know how to extricate herself from her predicament, and James seemed far too amused to be of any help.

Steeling his Gryffindor nerves Harry said, "I'm here because I wanted to apologise to you, Francis. I wanted to say that I'm sorry." Francis' frown deepened. Trying not to let that discourage him, he continued, "I know I was wrong to say all that stuff about Slytherin. It was both mean and rude of me, and I hope you'll forgive me."

"Why'd you say it then?" Darian interrupted unexpectedly. "It was _really_ mean," he added with a pout.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck apologetically. "The very first wizard I ever met said that everyone in Slytherin was bad. And there was a," he glanced at James and Lily, "bad man—a _very_ bad man—who was also from Slytherin. And then when I came to Hogwarts, all the Slytherins I knew were very mean to me too. And, er," he bit his lip as he peeked up quickly at Snape, "I didn't like the head of Slytherin very much either."

"Well, Uncle Sev's loads of fun," Darian proclaimed, grinning, "you'll like him." Harry barely tamped down the incredulous sound in his throat before it escaped. "He helps me make cool 'splosions with potions!" Harry couldn't stop a quizzical glance at the man, who was staring back at him curiously.

"That's … nice," he said, seeing Darian's expectant expression. A muffled snort came from James' general direction. He looked back at Francis, who seemed to be trying to work something out with mediocre success.

"You really _were_ very rude," she said finally, "but if you're properly sorry"—here she eyed him doubtfully—"well, Mum also says it's bad form to hold grudges, so I guess I accept your apology."

"Thanks," Harry smiled hesitantly at her.

"So we can be friends again?" asked Darian excitedly, looking between them. "And Harry can stay?"

James smiled at him. "Yes, Darian, Harry will be staying. In fact, he's going to be staying with us."

"Wait," Harry said suddenly, "Where's the other me? The other Harry Potter, I mean."

" _What?_ " Francis shot to her feet. "You're Harry _Potter_?" She started at him as though he had grown another three heads, then turned to Lily. "Mum, he's _our_ Harry?"

A glance passed so swiftly between James and Lily that Harry almost didn't catch it. Lily knelt down in front of Francis, while James placed a hand on a wide-eyed Darian's shoulder. "Yes, sweetheart, he is. But he's from another world and didn't know any of us there—"

"But how can he not know us? We're his _family_!"

"Well, the thing about other worlds is that, as far as we can tell, even though there are lots of similarities between them, some things happen very differently too. Harry lost us when he was a baby, so …"

Harry didn't catch the rest of her explanation or Francis' and Darian's replies because Snape was beckoning him over from the far side of the room. "Er, yes sir?" he said, shifting from one foot to the other nervously.

Snape considered him for a moment, before sitting down on a chair and gesturing to the one beside him. "Sit, Mr. Potter. I have no desire to speak to the top of your head, since you refuse to look up." Harry hesitated, sitting gingerly on its edge. "It will be a little while before we get anything coherent from that lot, so in the meantime I may be able to clarify some of your doubts." He glanced back at the huddled Potters before turning his attention back on Harry. "To answer your question, there are no other Harry Potters running around in this world.

"However," he added, seeing Harry's mouth open, "a Harry Potter _was_ born to Lily and James Potter on July 31, 1980. It was a dangerous time, with the Dark Lord wreaking havoc on the wizarding world." The professor had a faraway expression on his face. "Despite that, the baby was showered with affection and care by his parents and their friends. After Harry turned one, two of his parents' closest friends, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, began to notice that another of their companions, Peter Pettigrew, was spending less and less time with them and acting more suspicious." Harry leaned forward, unable to help being captivated by the story the professor was weaving. "They brought this to the attention of James and Lily, who decided to lay a trap for Peter. However, Peter deduced their plan, and on October 31, 1981, he brought the Dark Lord with him to the Potter household. Peter duelled and was captured by James and Lily, but in the meantime the Dark Lord had cursed little Harry."

Harry nodded, rubbing his scar reflexively. "Green," he murmured, not seeing the sharp look Snape shot him.

"Harry was killed," Snape continued quietly, his black eyes fixed on Harry, "but something else, something no one could have foreseen, occurred. Somehow, Harry also defeated the Dark Lord. So powerful was the magic that not even a body was left behind." There was an almost sorrowful depth to his sombre voice. "And so, with the cruel death of a much-loved infant came an era of peace."

Half-formed thoughts were flitting rapidly through Harry's head. So he was dead here. Voldemort had died and never came back. And he, Harry Potter the orphan, apparently had more family and friends than he had ever heard of. So many discrepancies and yet so much still the same. What had caused things to be so different between this world and his?

And what would a Harry Potter that had grown up here have been like? If he had survived the altercation with Voldemort, would he have been very different from who he was now? He wouldn't have had to live with the Dursleys, for one; he would have grown up with his real parents – something he had wished for as far back as he could remember – and would probably even have had siblings!

He jumped at the touch on his arm.

All the Potters – his family! – were watching him. "A lot to take in, isn't it kiddo," James commiserated. He turned to Snape. "Thank you for explaining everything to him, Severus. Francis and Darian were fairly bursting with questions, and I dare say you know what that is like." He shook his head as he smiled indulgently at the children. "Would you like to join us down in our rooms for a late night tea?" Harry observed their interaction with interest – considering how the Snape of his world never have passed up an opportunity to ferociously disparage everything about James Potter from his arrogant strut to his complete lack of talent, this was a very unexpected exchange.

"I'm afraid I will have to decline – unfortunately, no matter how advanced magic has become, assignments do not mark themselves," he said wryly. "Good night, James, Lily." Harry watched in amazement as Snape bent down and repeated the sentiment to Francis and Darian, his eyes nearly falling out of his head when said children hugged Snape … and _Snape hugged back_.

He subtly pinched his arm and immediately rubbed the stinging skin. Definitely an alternate universe, he decided.

 

* * *

 

The moon shone brightly, illuminating the Great Lake and the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. It also reflected off the silvery hair of the ponderously walking Albus Dumbledore. The sprawling grounds of Hogwarts were always a fruitful place for the headmaster, whether for profound thought, fleeting adventures, or simply a refreshing exercise.

This night saw the headmaster dwelling deeply on the curious and entirely unexpected arrival of Hogwarts' newest student: Harry Potter. The whole thing seemed rather implausible, and truthfully, were it not for the child's passionate and detailed delivery (not to mention Poppy's numerous tests), he would have been far more sceptical. Not even thirteen, the young boy had seen and done more than many who were well into adulthood, all without becoming filled to the brim with bitterness and hatred. The resilience of a child, especially this particular one, he mused, was something to be admired.

Harry Potter. A name still not uttered in magical Britain without melancholy and reverence clinging to every syllable. The herald of a peace unlike any that the wixes* of Britain had seen in decades.

A peace that, he was slowly realising, was but a masterful, hope-filled, drawn-out illusion. For young Harry had alluded to certain unusual and heinous magics in the adventures of his last two years, unusual even for the wizarding world. Tom's diary was perhaps the greatest clue, a dire warning of a magic most depraved. And it was very probable that Tom had taken similar measures to ensure immortality in this universe, regardless of whether anyone had been aware of them or not.

He did not want to admit, even to himself, the implications that this had. To do so would be to acknowledge that the long-awaited peace and prosperity was gone. That war was upon them once again. Not outright – yet – but lurking in the shadows, biding its time.

But he was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore: Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class. And a very tired old man to boot, but that did not grant him the luxury of ignoring the undeniable: Voldemort was almost certainly still alive.

And that rather vexing prophecy – did it now refer to their new guest, who by all accounts has suffered far more than any child should ever have? Or was it fulfilled when their own little Harry died at Tom's hand? Regardless, Tom's belief in the prophecy was the only quality that was of real importance. Once he discovered the continued existence of Harry Potter – and it was only a matter of time before Harry Potter's return to the wizarding world became public knowledge, especially once he began his studies at Hogwarts – he would come after the boy again. Perhaps it would be best to introduce Harry in September rather than in the coming days after all. He would have to speak with James and Lily regarding the child's safety as well as put together a plausible story that performed the double purpose of mollifying the public and keeping away the Ministry's meddling fingers.

A soothing trill echoed in the crisp night air before Fawkes alighted on his shoulder. "Yes, old friend, I know. Worrying does no good at the best of times." He sighed, stroking the fiery plumage. "But Harry is rather special – the much-mourned son of James and Lily, older brother to our young Francis and Darian, and altogether more dear to me than he should be already. Remus and Sirius will be thrilled once they find out, and I daresay Severus already approves. How ever did my counterpart employ logic in the face of such decisions?" Fawkes gave a low, melodic trill. "The choice between right and easy, yes. It would be much simpler if I were not so attached to them all so much. But you are right, of course. I must speak with them tomorrow."

The trees bore silent witness to the sight before them: a tired old man walking slowly back to the castle ahead, his head bowed solemnly, and a brilliant phoenix soaring above in sweet song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … uh … it's been a year and a half … hey guys … I'm not going to make any excuses, other than to say that life really has a way of getting away from you. But one of the biggest motivators was definitely the lovely comments I've continued to receive in that time, so thank you all!
> 
> Surprise, Harry, you're a brother! Something he would probably have liked to know about _before_ he insulted his sister but, well, you can't have everything in life. Snape hugs children, family reunion's about to go down, Dumbledore's struggling to be objective – though really, who can blame him when he's surrounded by such adorable kids all the time?
> 
> *wix = an inclusive, gender-neutral term for magic-users (which I remember reading in another fic a while back and liking very much)
> 
> Please continue to review (although I clearly don't deserve them) – seriously, other than Darian's cuteness, they are what keep me going! :p


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